


This Wandering Youth

by dustywings



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustywings/pseuds/dustywings
Summary: Aragorn kisses him, if only to silence his desperate wails.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set shortly after Aragorn arrives at Helm's Deep in _The Two Towers_. An alternative reaction from Legolas after Aragorn's near-death.  
>  This is actually my first ever _Lord of the Rings_ fic! I hope you enjoy.

 

_I just wanted to be beside you  
_ _as you conquered the world  
_ _with your eyes  
_ _wide open–––––_

 

 

 

 

 

     Stars rest between wars.

His skin is unnaturally pale, and he hasn’t shaven in days. Grey hairs have started to grow, although it might just be the light.

That is truly how beautiful of a creature he is. The moon caresses his cheeks, and runs through his unruly hair. It’s startling that this warrior, this man, was once a child. A boy, wild and alone. Raised and groomed amongst a kind he does not entirely belong.

An elf weeps, face hidden in the shadow of his hood.

Death is such a simple reality. Until it grasps what is closest to him, and _rips it apart_.

‘Have you slept?’

Aragorn _sounds_ old. By the time he reaches the elf, the tears have already been wiped away. 

Perhaps a fruitless attempt.

One can’t hide emotions from a creature which is so _attuned_ to them.

How flawed Man can be.

‘I am not tired this night,’ Legolas speaks, voice light as a feather; a distant tune of home. He dares to look at him, to wonder at his rugged face, warm eyes. What kind of a child must he have been? Quiet? Daring? _Helpless_? Utterly magnificent. ‘The stars,’ he adds, and then he has to turn away; admire the skies instead. _Because looking at him, admiring him––weighs so heavy on his bleeding heart_. ‘I was beginning to miss them.’

Aragorn looks up too. 

Lately, the beauty of the world has passed him by. 

‘You must rest. We need your strength.’

‘Understand that your insistence only falls on deaf ears, friend. I _cannot_ sleep.’

Aragorn sighs. Not from defeat. 

There’s something wrong. And his lungs ache, knowing the truth. Breathing has become so _painful_ , because facing his own fatality not just wounded _him_ , but the elf who stands near. It is a confession which will never pour from his lips, yet it is as clear as day. 

He was gone. Maybe not for long, but he was gone.

_In his mind, he was dead. His face, his eyes, his voice, his presence. Gone, for eternity._

An apology is meaningless. When it comes to battle, sacrifice is always necessary.

But he’s close, _so close_ , to pour with his grief. In public eye, he would never admit to what he nearly lost. _Who_ he nearly lost. It is such a naïve thing, to forget the agony love carries. To lose the only person on this damaged earth who matters. Who makes _sense_. Who cradles his heart, and holds it tenderly to their chest. 

Now, though, Legolas could _scream_. 

Words amount to nothing in a lifetime of war. So he is silent. His perfect, _shattered_ self trembles at the sight of Aragorn. He should be dead. He should be a ghost. _He shouldn’t be here, watching him, flawed and tremendously human_. But he isn’t dead, and he isn’t a ghost. He is real, and he is alive, and Legolas can _feel_ the beat of his heart. The blood rushing through his body, desperately trying to maintain his life; doing everything possible to keep this ferocious warrior breathe.

Words. They’re nothing.

So when Aragorn turns away, a motion of his departure, Legolas panics.

The grip on his wrist is firm, yet gentle. Aragorn is taken by surprise, and he instinctively tenses. His eyes are wide with curiosity and guilt, and they look at each other. 

It’s enough.

Because there they are: tears, twinkling in his eyes––a reflection of the stars. His jaw is clenched, his knuckles white as he _fiercely_ clings onto Aragorn. It is an image, a vision, Aragorn won’t ever be able to erase from his mind. Not that he would ever want to. Nothing, nothing in his long life, has ever seemed so phenomenal.

Not even the most stoic of men could ignore such a _gaze_. 

Aragorn can’t _handle_ it. He’s struck.

Everything about this brilliant knight overwhelms him. Without thinking, he reaches out, and he touches him. Legolas’s cheeks are soft and smooth, and his breath stops. They _both_ stop. They allow this moment to sink in, they allow themselves to truly grasp what is happening. What they have, what they’re feeling, what they desire.

Legolas cradles Aragon’s face between his hands, and there’s a struggle when Aragorn hesitates again.

Their foreheads touch, and Aragorn inhales quickly––he can feel Legolas’s fingers sweep past the necklace he offered only hours before; and his caress is cool. A chill against his flesh, and suddenly the very idea of Legolas letting go is enough to tear him into insanity.

‘I could only think: they had dangled you before me, to _torment_ me. Then, the very moment you’re all that occupies my mind, you’re taken from me. That is the cruelest torture, surely. I can’t comprehend anything more–– _punishing_.’ He scrunches his eyes shut, pressing his lips together, and Aragorn witnesses him fight his pain. ‘What have you done to me?’

If Aragorn’s heart could break again.

And this time, he _is_ sorry, so sorry that when he tries to speak, he can’t. 

His voice has been stolen from him. He’s _strangled_ , suffocating, and needs to breathe.

When he meets Legolas’s gaze, looks at him, he could run. For a split second, he could forget the Ring, he could walk away from the Hobbit he pledged to protect, he could walk away from it all––if only Legolas would follow him too.

It is a second which passes as quickly as it arrives, but it’s a fantasy he indulges in nevertheless.

Aragorn kisses him, if only to silence his desperate wails.

They kiss as lovers have done for centuries. 

Each time Legolas touches his torn face, Aragorn tenses a little; a reminder to Legolas that he is still alive. _That he hasn’t truly disappeared forever_. Legolas kisses him, so soft as his lips play in rhythm with his, as if afraid he could _hurt_ him. Shred apart what is left of his bruised body. They breathe, press into the other, taste each other, inhale, _cling on until their palms ache_. 

Lifetimes might have gone by, unnoticed, for they can’t separate from each other. Locked in their embrace, Aragorn needs a moment––just a moment––to see his face. To see the face he has kissed, and touched, and loved.

‘I believed I might have lost you as well,’ Aragorn whispers. ‘That I might have been too late.’

Too late to tell him, to let him know; _too late to kiss what keeps him grounded._ Too late to hold a man who means so _dearly_ to him, and always shall.

Legolas smiles.

A small smile, a sad smile, but a smile all the same.

‘Never.’

 

 

 

 

 

_–––––and your heart  
_ _so full of love  
_ _that even if the world was just us  
_ _then that  
_ _would have been  
_ _enough._


End file.
